Page 42 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

“You have a power ranking for Hallmark movies? Adam, you’re holding out on me!”

He buttons up a flannel midlayer before pulling on his coat—khaki-side out. “As someone who has lived both in Minneapolis and on the North Shore, trust me, you’d still be you, but on the North Shore. There would be fewer people and a bigger lake, but all of the things that are keeping you from hiking and liking to camp are coming with you. And you’d be two hours from the airport, so you’re not traveling more.”

“But I wouldn’t mind the drive because Duluth Alison is also very competent at meditating.”

“Is the guy selling Christmas trees out of a Walgreens parking lot teaching you to meditate too?”

Coming around to my side of the table, Adam plucks my wool jacket from my chair and holds it open before me, like this is something we do. We dress each other. I school my features and slowly extend my arms into my sleeves, aware of his knuckles brushing my shoulders. When both elbows are draped in fabric, he drops my coat, and I shrug it on the rest of the way.

By the time I spin around, he’s already facing the window, his forehead tight and unreadable. I let him lead me out of the deli and pass in front of him as he holds open the door. The cold air hits the skin at my collarbone and I’m reminded again of my estranged nipples as Adam and I walk side by side.

Adam tilts his head down toward me as we walk, a small gesture that closes the gap between us by approximately two crucial inches. “I just think you are who you are.” He gestures to a beige truck. “This is me.”

I resist the urge to lean two more inches closer. Instead, I adjust my scarf to block the oncoming wind. “I know, Adam. I spent a very traumatic day trapped inside it.”

His eyes meet mine as he opens the passenger door, directing me toward him like a homing beacon. My legs carry me over before I can second-guess myself. “So are you going to show me the majestic beauty of your city, or what?”

Something resembling delight tugs at his features. “Hiking’s out. What is something you’ve actually wanted to do here?”

I genuinely consider the question as he crosses over to the driver’s side. “I’ve always wanted to ride the Christmas train at the railroad museum.”

“Really?” he asks, incredulous.

“Yes.” I lower the visor, trying to conceal my embarrassment. “What else am I supposed to want to do here? I’ve seen Lake Superior, and it’s just a moodier Lake Michigan.”

He exhales a laugh and pulls on the gearshift. “All right, Thomas. Whatever you like.”

“No. That nickname cannot become a thing.”

“Fine. Fine. I don’t think we can ride the Christmas train this early in the day, but we can see it at the museum.”

“You sure you don’t mind spending the afternoon at a train museum? It’s not too much of a clichéd ‘nephew visiting’ afternoon in Duluth?”

He pulls forward out of his parking spot and into the foggy street. “I’ve never taken my nephew there and it seems like a quintessential tourist experience, which I’ve never been here.”

“All right. We’ll be tourists together today.” I rub my hands together for warmth. “I want ‘Duluth Classic.’ I’m talking the equivalent of a ‘Spoonbridge, Dylan mural, Mall of America, and cap it off with juicy lucys at Hank’s’ kind of afternoon.”

“Hank’s is your idea of a quintessential juicy lucy?” His eyes flick over to me.

The juicy lucy—a cheese-stuffed burger patty—is a necessary element of all Minneapolis burger menus. The location of the perfect juicy lucy is hotly contested by those who care deeply about regional restaurant rankings and “best of” listicles.

I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t know. It’s a disgusting burger. Do you have a favorite? Is that how College Adam spent his days—eating molten-cheese-filled beef patties, burning the roof of his mouth?”

We debate burgers for the short drive to the museum.

“It’s comforting. It’s supposed to be warm and gooey,” Adam argues as we hop out of the truck, defending the storied Midwest tradition of stuffing food in other foods.

“I don’t like scalding-hot surprises when I’m seeking comfort.”

“A little heat never hurt anyone.” He opens the door to the French-château-style building, extending his arm out to say, After you.

“If it’s not a burger from The Nook, what’s your comfort food, then?” His question echoes through the grand hall of the restored Duluth Union Depot, which now houses the Lake Superior Railroad Museum and manages the operation of the scenic railroad along the shoreline.

His face holds a sincere intensity that indicates either a genuine interest in my banal personal trivia or a fierce determination to steal my identity. I won’t know for sure until he asks for my mother’s maiden name or the street I grew up on.

“Personal pan pizza,” I answer. “But I have to earn it through reading chapter books or no dice.”

“See, that’s what’s wrong with the education system in this country.”

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